


a boy as I am

by brinnanza



Series: rqg trans conspiracy board fics [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Backstory Liberties, Corporation Oneshot, Gen, I can't believe I'm legitimizing alex's terrible character name but here we are, Mr Doctor Medic Did Nothing Wrong And That's Facts, Trans Male Character, basically the reason he keeps insisting that's it's MR doctor medic is bc he's trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: His name is just another part of his tidy collection of rituals: slick back his hair until it’s nearly flush with his scalp, disinfect the surfaces he comes into contact with, correct anyone who fails to use his full name.
Series: rqg trans conspiracy board fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637446
Comments: 3
Kudos: 63





	a boy as I am

**Author's Note:**

> basically I was listening to corporation, had a galaxy brain moment, and then decided all of alex's oneshot characters are trans and/or gnc (which to be fair is literally canon for apocalypse world, motw, and deadlands) because I can and will rub my filthy trans hands all over this podcast. any time someone is mean to alex's oneshot characters, it activates my fight response, which I have channeled into. whatever this is. (yes I did go out of my way to avoid using "Mr Doctor Medic" in the actual prose; just because I like the character does not mean I do not hate the name, _alex_ )
> 
> title's from the mech's iphis because Trans.

He’s six years old that first time, long white-blonde hair plaited down his back. He’s wearing a serious expression and an old dressing gown with the sleeves rolled up, toy stethoscope round his neck. He hasn’t got any proper latex gloves, so he makes do with his regular winter gloves, even though they’re the wrong color. He removes the stethoscope, pops the earpieces into his ears, and very solemnly places the diaphragm against his mum’s chest. He cannot hear the heart murmur, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“What’s the diagnosis, Miss Doctor?” says Mum, because that’s another thing he doesn’t know quite yet. She smiles at him, broad and tender; it’s a common enough game, but it still makes her grin. She’s explained the joke to him before, how their surname means something like doctor, why she finds it so funny to call him “Miss” instead of “Doctor.”

He frowns at the title. There is something wrong about it, something that doesn’t fit quite right, like last year’s trousers hitting too high at his ankles. Perhaps he has outgrown the joke, and wants even this play to be taken seriously. “It’s _Mr._ Doctor, actually,” he says, and that sounds more true.

Mum pauses, but her smile doesn’t flicker. “Alright,” she says. “What’s the diagnosis, Mr. Doctor?”

\--

He’s twelve and alone, and it seems like a good idea at the time, a way to remember that old game, the first time he knew. A way to remember Mum’s joke. It sounds made up, of course, but that’s because it _is_. He has learned in the intervening six years that _he_ is made up, that figuring out the person he wants to be involves a series of costume changes until he finds the one that fits.

This one fits. When he is grown, degrees displayed proudly on an office wall, it will fit too well, perhaps, but he doesn’t know that yet. He is twelve and at the top of his class, free time spent reading bio journals and tech manuals. He doesn’t know yet what he will become, but he is learning what he _is_ , what he might have always been.

He has to forge the signatures on the forms, but his new ident card shows up a few days later with a new name and a new picture, M where there once was an F.

It feels like a fresh start.

\--

By 17, he’s saved and scrounged and stolen enough to afford all the surgeries, and read enough medical textbooks to recite the whole procedure to the attending physician. It doesn’t endear him to the hospital staff, but he has long since stopped trying to endear himself to anyone. He is 17 and brilliant, and once his body is correct, he can continue becoming himself.

“Afternoon, Mr…. Medic?” says a nurse whose come to get him for pre-op. She looks up from the chart and smiles at him. He doesn’t recognize her, but she’s clearly heard gossip from the other hospital staff about the skinny kid with the weird name who thinks he knows it all because she doesn’t comment on it like everyone else does when they’re hearing for the first time.

“Mr. _Doctor_ Medic,” he says, because he is 17 and full of himself, because even years later it thrills him to hear the name he chose.

The nurse gives him a tight smile, amusement bleeding from her expression. “Of course,” she says. “Mr. Doctor Medic.”

\--

Hugo just calls him “Medic” on the first job they do together, voice a dismissive sneer. 

“Mr. Doctor Medic, actually,” he corrects, reflexive as breathing.

Hugo rolls his eyes, like his name, his very _being_ is an unpardonable offense. “Whatever.”

“It’s my name,” he says, in a bored sort of drawl, like he’s explaining something extremely simple to someone extremely dim. Which he supposes he is. He takes it in stride though; he knows his own worth, his own skill, and the opinions of some cut-rate thug with a gun have no bearing on it.

The job’s a lark anyway, despite Hugo’s animosity. He dips in and out of security systems, clearing the way for the rest of the team without having to actually expose himself to the embassy’s rather lax cleaning standards. He cheers them on over subvocals, whooping at the distant sound of an explosion, no doubt Ivanka’s doing. Henrietta cheers along, slightly off time and over-loud for the music blasting from her headphones.

They do the job, and they get away clean. Well, _he_ does at any rate. The others have their fair share of blood splatter. He keeps his distance, white coat pristine.

\--

Mum used to say he was “particular” when she was feeling generous about it. He’d always liked “particular” over the more cutting synonyms he’s been called. It makes him sound smart, detail-oriented, like this is a fascet of himself he’s chosen rather than a disorder woven into the fabric of him. It’s always “nit-picky” or “fussy” or “impossible to please” when it’s inconvenient for others, and there is a certain thrill in replying no, he is just _particular_

So he is particular, about germs, about dirt, about his neural port and what he’s willing to touch with his hands. His name is just another part of his tidy collection of rituals: slick back his hair until it’s nearly flush with his scalp, disinfect the surfaces he comes into contact with, correct anyone who fails to use his full name. 

People think him conceited, he knows, to insist on all three parts of his name, to wear the white coat when he doesn’t have to, like he can’t let anyone forget about the medical degree he’s earned, even for a moment. And perhaps there is a sliver of pride in the motions, but his name is more than just a title, his coat more than just a uniform. It’s a living monument to those old games, to his own past. It is the fundamental core of him writ large, and its inconvenience to others does not absolve them of the responsibility of speaking it.

He will not make himself small for their comfort.


End file.
